


Like Moth to Flame

by Melanie_Athene



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Pre-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-11
Updated: 2011-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-25 23:12:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_Athene/pseuds/Melanie_Athene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written November 2004</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written November 2004

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's POV

A single candle flickers in your study window and, as I always do, I linger by your gate in silent contemplation of its gleam.

And I wonder...

How are you spending your evening? Are you lost in some grand tale of enchantment and adventure? Do you sit there in the soft light, gently nibbling at your fingernails and thinking, or do you furiously scribble down the thoughts that flick across your mind as the shadows dance across your face? Rustle of page, scritch of pen, your own breath soft upon the air, and silence... these are your familiar companions.

And I wonder...

Are you content with your life as a solitary scholar?

Or are you lonely, Mr. Frodo?

Some nights those solitary hours between dusk and dawn must seem to know no end. Do you leave the candle burning to frighten away the dark? Do you hope to guide some weary traveler to a safe haven? Would you scurry, your heart beating just a little bit faster, to answer someone's sudden knock upon your door?

Do you ever dream that someday that 'someone' might be me?

How often have I paused here, late to home from work or tavern, and wondered: what if he's waiting up for me? What if that light's a beacon calling me home?

Ah, the fantasies I conjure...

 _I silently slip in your door, pad softly down the hall to find you seated at your desk. Perhaps, your head rests on your arms, and I gently kiss you awake..._

 _Perhaps, your face turns to the doorway as I enter, and the welcome which lights your blue eyes burns more brightly than any candle flame..._

 _Perhaps, we sink down together, right there on the hearth rug, locked in a passionate embrace..._

 _Perhaps, you pick up the candle, take me by the hand, and lead me down dark hallways to your room..._

I am the moth drawn to your flame.

How I yearn to hasten to you. How I long to hold you close and never let you go. I want to know the wishes of your heart, give the comfort of my body, share the secrets only lovers know.

You are so tantalizingly within reach, yet as far away as the farthest star...

What words would tumble from your lips if I reached out and took your hand? What proper answer could I give when the very sight of your fair face steals my breath away? One look in my eyes and you would know the truth I try so hard to hide.

And I wonder...

Would surrendering to temptation mean my doom? No moth was ever meant to fly so close to the object of its desire.

And yet...

To lose oneself in one sweet blaze of glory-- would that be so terrible a way to die?

Your candle flickers out, and with it goes my courage. But I cannot help but cast one last glance of longing at your darkened window.

Is there a darker shadow hovering there?

Do I see a pale white hand flattened against the glass, palm out, the fingers splayed?

I raise my own hand, as if I would press against you palm to palm, heart to heart...

And if, perchance, the wind whispers my name as I turn my steps to home, I do not hear. For your name is the wish that my lips sigh.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo's POV

The hour grows late, and a fine wine of ancient vintage has slowly vanished, glass by glass, savoured in the silence of the night. The fire has long since died out in the fireplace, not even its embers now remain to keep me company. Letters to my cousins, which I had planned to have ready for the morning post, lay cast aside, half-written. The book of elvish lore that I'd thought sure to entertain me has been carefully re-shelved, unread, unopened...

And still I sit here, staring at the candle I left burning on my window sill.

I can hear the villagers' tongues a-wagging at tomorrow's market. “That Mad Baggins! It must be nice to have the coppers to spare to light the night away like that. A decent hobbit would take himself off to bed.”

Yes, a decent hobbit might. A decent hobbit would tuck himself up all snug and cozy with his decent hobbit wife, and snore away the long, cold hours until dawn.

No wife, no bed, no sleep for me. A self-indulgent smile flickers across my face. And if I wish to waste my coppers, who is there to say me nay? To be the Master of Bag End is no small thing. But to be the master of one's self... Ah, there's the greater challenge-- and a raging battle that I fear I have lost again tonight.

What would you think of your prim and proper master if you could see me now? Writhing in my armchair, loose-limbed and legs spread wide. Clothing unbuttoned and askew. Face flushed and glossed with sweat. Lips parted, panting out your name...

“Sam, Sam, my Sam.”

Heat engulfs me, I am aflame with my passion. Frantically my hand pumps my rigid flesh and my back arches, thrusting my hips forward. Close, I am so close.

“Touch me, Sam.”

Slower now, my hand strokes the hot length of my aching cock. A thumb flicks the sensitive tip, and spreads the first bead of moisture pooling there. My other hand cups my balls and squeezes none too gently.

“Sam,” I gasp, head falling back against the headrest. “Yes, Sam, like that.”

I love to watch your hands: so strong, so capable, so gentle. There is poetry in your hands, you craft a song with their every motion. Flowers blossom in my garden at the blessing of your touch, and turn their heads to follow as you walk by.

They know no sun could shine as brightly as your smile.

I know this too.

I want to open myself to your welcoming warmth. I want to spread myself before you like a needy flowerbed. Sow your seed within me, plant your strength and joy and hope deep in my heart. Nip and tease and tend me with your lips, and prune away the loneliness that shades me. I need you, Sam. I trust you to know just what to do to make me bloom.

A final stroke of 'your' hand and I am there. Spilling over for you. Still gasping your name. The master has been mastered by his own desire.

Tugging my clothes back into some semblance of order, I stagger from my chair.

The candle I left burning mocks me. It knows, you see. It knows that I have placed it in my window as a message for you. As a message... and as a lure. You know full well how absent-minded I can be. To leave a candle burning 'untended' in a room overflowing with old books and papers? Tsk-tsk, Frodo. How careless of you. Perhaps your devoted servant should look in on his poor master, so he doesn't burn to ashes in his sleep.

But, alas, it would seem the bait's not taken.

Ah well, perhaps tomorrow night? Once again, I will let a wastrel's candle bear witness to my most treasured fantasy. It is a poor plan, but it is the only one I have. I cling to it in desperation. For until you come to me, the comfort of imagination is the only consolation I can find.

I blow the candle out.

And there you are. Standing by my gate as I have seen you stand so many times before.

I lift my hand and press it to the glass, as I would press it to your face were you here now with me.

I would curl my fingers to cup your cheek. I would lean forward, slow as the creep of time, until your lips were firmly meshed with mine. I would draw you close, slip your garments from you one by one and let them fall. I would draw your hands to my trembling body and let you feel the hunger you stir in me.

“I love you, Sam,” I whisper.

As if in answer, you lift a wistful hand... and slowly walk away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo's POV

You slowly walk away. While I-- wretched fool that I am-- I stand here in my window, in my ivory tower, in my _prison_... and I simply watch you go.

No! I cannot take this any more! I will not!

Sprinting through my silent smial, stumbling, tripping, cursing in the dark, I find my way to my front door and fling it open.

“Sam!” I cry, my voice shattering the tranquility of the night.

You do not pause or turn. Of course, you cannot hear me-- what _is_ that sudden noise? Is it the wind's roar? No, it is my own blood madly rushing through my veins.

“Sam!” I scream, uncaring of whose slumber I might disturb, what grumbles and rude comments my sudden clamour might bestir. I want the whole world to wake-- awake as I have awoken to a pure and simple truth, a truth that I must share: _I love you_. Damned be pride, damned be propriety, and damned be my fear of you rejecting me! How could discovering that you don't want me cause me any greater pain than never knowing how you feel?

My feet pound down the path. My heart speeds on ahead, soaring with hope and anticipation, fluttering with fear, straining to escape my breast and fly to you.

In the darkness, I almost do not see your darker shape suddenly materialize before me. I stagger to a halt, and find my shoulders instantly held and steadied by two strong, sure hands.

“Easy there, Mr. Frodo,” you murmur. “You'll break your neck runnin' in the dark like that.”

You're shivering. I can feel it. Can you feel me shivering too?

My eyes have adjusted somewhat to the faint gleam of starlight. I cannot read your familiar features, but I can see that your face is averted. Why won't you look at me? What are you trying to hide?

“S-sam?” My teeth are chattering too badly to continue, and _not_ from the cold. “Sam...” I try again, and falter to a stop. Now that you are here, how do I begin to tell you all that I want to say? Where is my famous skill with words when I need it most?

“Yes,” you whisper, and it is not a question.

I suddenly realize that you have not yet let go of your hold on me. But you _have_ raised your head. I can feel the full weight of your gaze upon me now.

“Yes?” I say, wonderingly.

“Yes. Oh yes, Frodo,” you breathe. And then you kiss me.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Sam, Frodo and then Sam again

His lips are softer than I ever could have imagined in my wildest fantasies. Soft and tender and giving and-- oh, I don't have the words to describe this. I don't-- I can't-- My brain is spinning more slowly than the constellations as they turn in the night sky. My heart races faster than the streak of light that is a shooting star.

I am kissing Frodo.

Why does that shock me less than the fact that I have dared to let his name pass from my lips without a 'Mister' to shield my heart from all he means to me?

I am kissing Frodo.

I have placed my hands upon him, and read in his helpless tremors all he could not bring himself to say. I have allowed my eyes to look upon him as other than my master.

And yet, the earth has not split open wide to swallow me whole. The world goes on much as it ever did: crickets chirp, and a night bird calls; somewhere someone slams a door; a dog barks and falls silent again at an outraged cry.

I am the same old Sam I always was.

But... but, _I am kissing Frodo_.

And, more importantly, Frodo is kissing me!

Fierce and hungry, his mouth seeks to devour me: sharp nips to my lips followed by slow, teasing licks. The eager press of his warm, wet tongue rasps against mine.

“Sam,” he moans, deep in his throat; the very word a caress, a promise, a wish, a prayer.

Somehow, his arms have found their way about me, pulling me closer, wrapping me in... _Frodo_ : his scent, his taste, his heat, his love.

Burning. I am burning. The flame has found me, and it now consumes me. But I no longer fear it. Willingly, I throw myself into the blaze. And we burn... _together_.

~*~

The slamming of a door just down the Row restores me somewhat to my senses and, unwillingly, I loosen my desperate clasp on Sam and slightly pull away. He follows, his nose bumping my cheek, nudging my face back into alignment so that his mouth might recapture mine. Quick hands tug me securely back in place, and he growls his disapproval of my resistance. Inevitably, I submit to this new delight, a smile curving my lips. My shy Sam grows bold? How very promising...

But this is not the place to pursue that thought. The last thing that I want to happen this evening is for the Gaffer to come stomping up the Hill to grab his errant son and drag him away. Nor do I want him boxing my ears, or lashing out at me with his too-sharp tongue.

“Sam,” I whisper between breathless kisses, made more breathless still by our now wandering hands. “Sam-love... let's go home.”

He pauses in his nuzzling of my neck, and my heart stutters with fear. Have I presumed too far? Hot and fast, his breath pants upon my moistened skin. An eternity passes before I feel his slight nod of acquiescence.

“Home,” he whispers, and trustingly slips his warm hand into mine.

Like giddy children we run and giggle and shush our way back to my smial. The door still lies open, left gaping wide to the night in my frantic haste to catch up with Sam. We stumble inside. Almost before it clangs shut behind us, we have tumbled back into each other's arms, and Sam is pressing me firmly up against my big green door.

This time his kiss is like nothing I have ever known. _Mine_ , it says. _You are mine_. Yes, oh yes, Sam. I _am_ yours... forever. As you are mine.

Impossibly, the kiss deepens. Is he making that little whimpering sound... or am I? Oh. Oh! And is he really touching me _there_? Like _that_?

“Bed, Sam.” I moan.

“Mmmm,” he hums agreeably. But he makes no move to let me go. And I make no effort to struggle to be free.

Our hands work in unison to divest us of all clothing. And when the last barrier of cloth flutters away from trembling fingertips, we sink down with it, and do not heed the hardness of the floor.

~*~

If kissing Frodo near rendered me a ninnyhammer, then I reckon I don't have words to describe the way I'm feeling now. All the dreams I ever had are coming true for me, right here, right now, tonight.

Frodo is making love to me. His hands stroke and sooth, tease and excite. His lips are trailing fire everywhere they touch... and they are touching everywhere.

“Oh. Ohhhh!” I moan, and arch myself up to meet his mouth as it moves down to engulf me. A firm, slim hand guides me back down to lie flat upon the floor. His other hand cups my sac and squeezes gently. And all the while that pretty mouth of his slides up and down my shaft.

Folks say my master has a clever tongue... they don't know the half of it!

I never knew--

How could I know--

“Ahhhh, Frodo!” I scream in warning, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't stop-- and neither can I.

He rides out my storm, cresting each wave easily, gracefully, in that way he has of being at home with himself, whatever circumstance might bring. And when I lay spent and weak, laid out before him like an offering, he chuckles throatily and slithers himself up the full length of my body to lie on top of me.

Oh.

It would seem there is a great deal more for me to learn about my dear master this night. I can feel him pulsing, hot and needy, the weight of his erection the most pleasing burden I could ever hope to bear.

“Sam?” he murmurs, beginning to rock and grind himself against me. My legs fall further apart in sure reply.

“So good, Sam,” he sighs contentedly. And I feel my heart, my body, singing in harmony with the drumbeat of his heart.

Faster now he thrusts, and faster still. Not unexpectedly, I fill again with my own need, and buck myself up to meet thrust with thrust, grind with grind.

We come together, this time. Together... as we are meant to be.

Frodo's head makes a pillow of my breast. “Now can we go to bed?” he whimpers plaintively.

I laugh and draw his pouting lips to mine. “Yes, love,” I chuckle. “Though I must say I am quite happy with your floor-- so long as you are here to share it with me.”

He kisses me.

I am kissing Frodo.

And, Lady willing, I expect I will be doing so for the rest of all our days.


End file.
